Home Truths
by Neko Kuroban
Summary: A car crash the winter of his sixteenth year leaves Boone Carlyle in a coma and Shannon struggling. Mild AU.
1. Prologue

**Author's Notes:** _This first chapter was a stab at trying dialogue only. The style will not be carried through the rest of the story. Revisions made 7/19/06._

* * *

**Home Truths**

**Prologue**

* * *

"Sara!"

"Mm?"

"What are you still doing here? Your shift was over almost an hour ago."

"Oh. Was it? I've been doing the write up for that comatose boy in room 403-A. It's a little weird, don't you think?"

"What is?"

"Oh... it's nothing."

"Sara, please."

"Well..." _Hesitant pause. _"His mom was...well, she was venting, but he seems like such a great kid. You know, good grades and everything. And he's probably got the cutest face, once the cuts and scrapes have healed."

_Dryly._ "Just the kind of boy I'd want my daughter to date. Does the family have money?"

_Laughter._ "Your daughter's still thirty months - she's wee and tiny. A little early to be playing the field, isn't it?"

_Falsely earnest._ "Well, Sara, kids just grow up so fast these days and I want her to have every advantage possible."

"Seriously, though, they looked pretty well-off. His mother was wearing shoes that probably cost more than my wedding dress. The kid's car was, um...let me find the report." _Papers shuffling. _"Oh! Yeah, it was a vintage Alpha-Romeo Spider." _A slight, wistful note._ "From the seventies. Not bad for a sixteen-year-old."

"So there was a sixteen-year-old white male juvenile involved in a car crash?" _Dry._ "Let me take a wild guess: there was an ample amount of pot he scored off a friend and alcohol in the trunk of the car." _Pause._ "Probably of the piss water variety, since kids don't know any better."

"Actually, no; that's the unusual thing. No drugs or alcohol. The report says he slid on the ice and lost control."

"I can't blame him. This weather is completely ridiculous. I came to California to escape the cold!"

"I know what you mean."

"A girl came in with him, right?"

"Yeah, she's his little sister. Half-sister or stepsister or something. They've got different last names. She had a concussion, but she seems to be recovering nicely. Denise has her, and she's been alert and awake on every hour when they checked. Her left leg is completely shattered, but it seems kind of like she got off easy compared to her brother." _Soft scratching of a ballpoint pen against wood pulp_. "Done! I'm out of here. I've got a seminar Tuesday, so I'll see you Wednesday if you're on call."

"Merry Christmas, Sara."

"Oh, you know it. Me and Jay have so many nieces and nephews to buy crap for that we're going to have, like, no money to get pretty things for each other, so we'll pretend it's all about being together for the birth of baby Jesus." _Giggle._ "Too bad we're both atheist. Night, Ellie!"

* * *

On her way towards the elevators, the doctor passed the room labeled 403. Without a pause, she dropped the thin file into one of the door-mounted bins, continuing on her way. The words printed across the file were clearly visible: 

**Patient # 4040 - Carlyle, B.**

Underneath was scribbled, right on the file cover:

**Estimated chance of recovery: 43**


	2. Chapter One

**Author's Notes:** _Revisions made 7/19/06. Chapter edited to extend Sabrina's characterization and give Sara some ending before she disappears for the rest of the fic. _

**Home Truths**

**Chapter One**

Doctor Sara McCulcton scowled as her hands to shake from a lack of nicotine.

"Cover for me," she told the nurse the moment that the patient – a sixty-year-old woman who had taken a fall down a flight of concrete stairs and suffered brain hemorrhaging – had been made comfortable. She recognized that there was precious little that could be done, especially when it was revealed that the woman had not been found until twelve hours after the accident. Sometimes people recovered from this; more often they did not. Her fiancée, Jay, always reminded her that she could not be the one to save them all. He was right; other than how to dissect a cat, that had been the first thing she had learned in medical school. The latter lesson she used almost every day; the former she sometimes laughed about when her cat curled on her stomach, the feline purring contentedly after a long day of mauling the sofa.

She shrugged her starched white laboratory coat off her shoulders. After dropping her beeper into the pocket of her loose-fitting turquoise scrubs, Sara left the small sickroom and headed down the bustling hallway for the observation deck. She opened the tinted glass door and the gravel, littered with cigarette butts, crunched beneath the soles of her conservative white shoes as she stepped outside.

A woman stood at the edge of the balcony, clutching a cell phone to her ear. The bitter wind was enough to make Sara shiver, but clad only in a fitted wool pantsuit, the woman seemed unaffected. The doctor eyed her, surrendering to a rush of envy. The blonde woman was slender and graceful, poised on elegant heels that would have snapped Sara's ankles.

"No, Paige." The woman's rosebud lips, emphasized by a cool trace of icy pink lipstick, dipped into a pretty frown. "No, I don't believe – " She threw a sharp glare to Sara, as if she had intruded upon a vital conversation.

Sara rolled her eyes and checked her pants pockets for cigarettes. She tried to tune out the conversation. She was naturally curious, which made it especially difficult. She sensed something in this woman – some sad, tragic quality. So many of those she encountered had such interesting lives and riveting stories. It was rarely the patients – in the intensive care unit, the patients were not usually up for a chat – but those around them. Her 'prying' (she had considered it friendliness) had gotten her in trouble with her supervisor, who had just divorced his third wife and expected everyone on his floor to be as emotionally stunted as he. "_Be like one of those Jedi,_" he suggested and she flushed darkly, knowing instinctively that he had found another book – probably _The Truce at Bakura_ – shoved between the couch cushions in the break room. "_No emotional attachments._"

"Excellent," the blonde woman went on, pushing a soft strand of highlighted hair behind her unoccupied hear, revealing exquisite diamond studs that caught the light. "Call me in ten minutes." She snapped the cell phone shut, ending the call. "God," she muttered crossly under her breath.

Sara sighed, giving up on her search – and her resolve to remain detached. "Do you have a cigarette?" The woman nodded and reached into her purse – even if Sara had not been the type of woman to indulge in reading _Vogue _and_ Cosmo! _while soaking in bubble bath on lazy afternoons, she would have recognized what the intricate _G_s stood for. A moment later, the blonde produced a silver cigarette case and a slender lighter. Both trinkets were engraved, spelling out _Sabrina Rutherford _in slender script. French manicured fingers thrust the items under Sara's nose. "Um, thanks." The woman's imperious bearing unnerved her with its majesty and she fumbled to light a cigarette. Once finished, she set the case and the lighter down on the wide balustrade. The burnished silver was a striking contrast against the utilitarian gray paint.

The woman's slender gold brows knitted with some emotion that Sara, stealing glances at her, could not quite place. After a moment, she too brought flame to tobacco. "How could he be so _stupid_?" She seemed unaware of Sara's presence. Perhaps she believed herself to be too good to take note of the 'servants'.

_Don't ask questions. You get yourself in way too much trouble because of it. _"Who?"

"Oh…" Misses Rutherford's eyes – the pale blue of wintry sky, not the warmth of the nurturing spring heavens – flickered over to Sara as if to confirm that the red-haired doctor was still there. "My son," she clarified.

Sara was unable to resist, not when the bait was dangled so temptingly. "What happened?"

The reply came as succinct as it was brisk and unconcerned. "He went and put himself in a coma," Misses Rutherford stated simply, leaving Sara speechless.

_The kid who came in earlier? _"Um…"

"I know, right? And all of his teachers – even his swim coach – are always e-mailing me, trying to tell me how I should be so proud of him." She glared toward the cloudy heavens as if God himself had wronged her. She inhaled sharply and flicked ashes from her cigarette. "And this is supposedly the boy my husband and I expected to end up on the _magna cum laude _lists." She looked at the burning stick of tobacco in her fingers as if disgusted, then flicked it over the edge of the balcony.

_Way to waste a perfectly good cigarette, _Sara thought, watching as it tumbled downward toward the sidewalk, crimson tip glowing. _There's people in that hospital who are dying for those. Some literally. _Her mouth twitched. _It's so wrong that I actually find that funny. _

Misses Rutherford sighed. "I guess National Honors' Society just doesn't mean as much as it used to."

What could Sara _say_ to that? "Er, I was never in N.H.S…."

"Oh?" The woman's eyebrow raised slowly, suggestively. She might as well have deemed Sara incompetent.

"Yeah," Sara could feel her skin growing hot, even with the chill. "It doesn't mean much if you're in prep school, and I went to Saint Roseline's in Palo Alto…"

"Both my children go there."

_Shit. Guess I shouldn't tell that story about rear-ending the nun. _"Cool. There's a great crew team and I was on that and the dance squad." She actually hadn't been on either – she'd never made crew, and she was too chubby for dance. Not to mention that the girls had been pure hell. She had fulfilled the three extracurricular requirements with tennis, chess and D&D.

Another insinuating eyebrow joined the first. "My stepdaughter is not on the dance team – she's in some company – yet she honestly believes she can do something with her dancing other than prancing around in a skimpy skirt. Foolish, right?"

Sara would have liked to hear more – shrewishness and hostility often masked bruised ideals. However, her pager buzzed. "I've got to get back to work."

* * *

That night, over a shared pizza that was greasy enough to have them blotting the cheese with paper towels and an episode of _Battlestar Galactica _that they had both seen, Sara recounted the tale to her fiancée. "What," she asked upon finishing, "would possess a woman to be such a complete bitch towards her child in front of a total stranger?"

Jay chuckled, pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses. "Maybe…" he paused to mute the television as the commercials came blaring on. "She could have been abused as a child."

"God, I hope so."

"Sara!" He mock-gasped. "You're supposed to care about and protect human life."

You always had to laugh to keep from crying.

"Jay! You're supposed to care about and protect children and their wee, tiny little mental states."

He sighed and conceded. "Yeah."

"Isn't your thesis titled _Child Abuse: Physical, Mental, Emotional and Spiritual and why it is Morally, Ethically and Psychologically Irredeemable so People who Scold Toddlers for Running into a Busy Intersection are Going to Hell_?"

He paused. "Um, except for the last bit."

"Right," she took a measured sip of water. "Because you follow the Dao."

"No, it's just because I didn't want to offend anyone and used the word 'heck'."

"Which is for people who don't believe in gosh."

He laughed and she grinned, comfortable silence falling between them. "Mind if I change the channel?"

"Go ahead."

He removed the mute, idly flipping through the stations.

_Click. _

"_Snow's in the forecast, Bay Area – "_

_Click._

"_Last time, on _Tilting Axis_…"_

"_Oh, Jane…"_

"_Richard, I'll never love anybody but you…"_

"_Call me Dick, Jane, my brightest shooting star." _

_Click. _

Familiar battle sequences made Jay sit up. "Hey, _Buffy_'s on."

Sara smiled, but it faded after a moment. "No, it's the first episode and we've seen it, like, twelve times."

"Oh, so we can watch _Xena _reruns, but not _Buffy_?"

She regarded him at her very most prim. "Some things are just sacred." She hugged a large pillow to her chest. "By the way," she said after a long moment, thinking of an item she had picked up, thinking of the two pink lines. "I'm going to quit smoking."

"You've smoked like a chimney for years. What brought this on?"

"Well," she stretched the word out as if it were a rubber band, and a smiled a secret little smile. "I know you like kids, but how do you feel about babies?"


	3. Chapter Two

**Title: Home Truths **

**Series: Lost **

**Installment: Three (minor revisions 6/6/06)**

**Disclaimer: LOST is the rightful property of ABC, and I make no claims of ownership. **

**Author's Notes: Many, many thanks to msmith4815 and Faran1078 for the reviews!**

* * *

**Home Truths**

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Stealing a glance over one shoulder, the immaculately dressed man hit the button on his key ring to ascertain that his car was locked. The vehicle -- a sleek Jaguar -- seemed oddly out of place nestled between an austere Ford pick up truck and a dusty mini van. The headlights gave a reassuring flash, and he tightened his hold on his leather briefcase. The attaché was locked and the brass key was in the pocket of his coat, but the documents within were vital to the case he was working on. He could hardly risk leaving them in the passenger seat of the car.

Adam recognized that this would not be a long visit. It would mostly consist of paperwork in order to get Boone's car back, he assumed. He could not quite find it himself to be angry. All kids screwed up at some point, his nubile blonde secretary had chirped in his general direction less than an hour ago, just before he left the office. He had not yet heard about the specifics of the accident, but the phone call from the police -- the one that had caused him to cut short the most important meeting of his month -- had virtually outlined what had happened: his daughter and stepson hit a patch of black ice on the highway and skidded over the smooth asphalt, only to be hit from behind by a truck. Sabrina, once he managed to get a hold of her, had not sounded panicked. It reassured him, especially coming from a woman who became agitated when the line at Starbucks caused her to run late. There had been something tired and brittle in her voice, but surely it could not have been an emergency. Shannon and Boone, she said, had been admitted to the hospital, and he supposed that a few minor scrapes and bruises were to be expected.

A man, sitting at a scratched metal desk covered with thick stacks of transmittal sheets and an electric typewriter, looked up as Adam entered the building. Wheezing slightly, the uniformed cop staggered to his feet, stiffly starched shirt straining over the large swell of his rotund stomach. He shoved out a large, pink hand toward Adam. "Who're you?" He wanted to know. His face flushed oddly, but his smile was genial enough.

Adam lifted a cool eyebrow and stared at the offered hand until the corpulent man, with a nervous chuckle, lowered it. Rutherford took his time to smooth an imagined wrinkle from the woolen sleeve of his jacket before speaking. "Earlier this afternoon, I received a call from a Corporal Geeseman."

"That would be me," a new voice declared and a woman -- with cropped brown hair and an outthrust jaw -- appeared in the doorway. There seemed to be nothing soft about her: her eyes were chips of gray ice; her hair a protective helmet; her breasts mounds of concrete. "Pete, do me a favor and pour a cup of Joe for this," her eyes swept over Adam, starting at his expensive shoes and ending with his barber-styled hair. "Gentleman."

Adam felt uneasily as if he was being appraised. "I'm--"

"The father of those kids..." she glanced at a piece of paper."Shannon and Boone Carlyle?" Adam was barely given the time to nod, let alone make the distinction before Geeseman barreled onwards. "My sympathies." He wondered what caused the brief look of pity that she cast him. "Come on with me."

There were no words that were exchanged as Geeseman led him down a stark corridor where the glare of the harsh overhead lights bounced off bottle green linoleum. Adam's footsteps were soft, but the officer's metal-toed boots clicked with each step, the clipped sound slowly grating against his already frayed nerves. At last, she came to a halt and opened a plain, unmarked door at the end of the hallway, ushering him into a cramped office. "Have a seat," she ordered and flipped on the lights. Cold illumination flooded the room. As he crossed the threshold, Adam felt as if he were stepping into a dream.

"Yes, this is his," Adam found himself telling the woman several long minutes later, turning the dented, mangled scrap of steel over in his hands. The license plate's thick, painted numbers were scratched and the slogan (some of that Save the Bay / Whales / Baby Seals / Future Fur Coats nonsense that the boy believed in with all the fervent idealism of youth) could no longer be deciphered.

"Excuse me," the policewoman broke in. "Mister Carlyle?" Her concern was uninterested, brusque and professional, and her voice seemed faint. He suddenly had a senseless mental image: him on his yacht, fifty miles off the coast (complete with Shannon tanning on the deck in a pink bikini that showed more skin than he approved of; Boone, seasick as ever, holed up in the cabin, curled on the bed with whatever book had caught his interest; and his beautiful wife pacing the deck as she argued into her cell phone) while this distant peace officer called from the shore.

"Rutherford," he heard himself correct after a moment, dropping his piercing gaze to the organized surface of her desk. There was a spread of photographs neatly arranged under a plate of clear plastic, capturing the lives of people he had never -- nor would ever -- know. They seemed insignificant, overlooked, covered with calendars, files and paperweights. However, a photo of Geeseman in the arms of a blonde occupied a bronze frame. The clear, crystal blue sky behind them seemed so far disconnected from Adam's reality.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Geeseman said briskly, without a scant hint of apology in her gruff voice. She studied him intently as if she were re-evaluating him. "Where is your wife?"

"She should be -" Adam looked down at his Rolex. Sabrina had mentioned that she was going to the hospital, and then if there was nothing she could do, she would be meeting a client downtown for dinner at Arcadia. "Working," he finished. Did this woman truly believe that a pair of working adults could just drop everything at a moment's notice? "I wasn't aware that both of us were required to be here."

Geeseman's mouth tightened with apparent disapproval. "She's not at the hospital." It was not a question, merely a declaration of fact. She might as well have told him that California had an energy crisis, or that the sky over the Bay Area had a problem with smog.

Adam took a sip of the lukewarm, sludge-like coffee -- black and bitter, just as he preferred -- and in spite of the unpleasant taste, was suddenly grateful for the rush of caffeine. "Yes, she should have left by now." He confirmed, attempting to hide his irritation with this stranger and her penetrating into his -- and his family's -- affairs.

Geeseman's jaw clenched. Masculine, short-nailed fingers fumbled with several ballpoint pens and a few file folders, a half-hearted attempt at straightening the already spotless surface of the desk. "Mister Rutherford." The manner in which her harsh, jarring voice spat his name made his teeth itch and set his muscles on edge. "Would you like to see your son's-"

(_Stepson's_, he corrected in his mind yet remained silent, betraying nothing.)

"Car?"

And suddenly, for no reason he could name, an invisible ribbon of steel entwined itself around Adam's throat, and he could not quite manage to inhale. "Yes," he said at last and reached up to loosen his navy tie. "I would."

Her head did not just hurt. The pain was making it _throb_. Even the tiniest motion sent her reeling like she was falling past a thousand whistling stars, and the softest, most hesitant noise echoed for miles through the tundra of her mind. She was suddenly reminded of that summer a few years ago when Dad and Sabrina dragged her and Boone to Alaska. The pain made her think about those times in the mountains where the biting, windless chill stretched and numbed her senses. Wires of light and dark ensnared one another a few inches from her weary brown eyes.

"Just lie down and relax," someone advised her from their vantage point outside the tunnel and she suddenly wished that she could see the owner of the male voice. As tender as he was trying to sound, his voice thundered in her skull like a jackhammer. "Maybe even close your eyes if you start to feel a little bit claustrophobic." She let out a soft, plaintive moan. The suggestion seemed anything but gentle.

Her eyelids weighed more than the weights Madame made her ballet class strap to ankles on Wednesdays when they did physical training. If she let her eyes close now, she would probably never be able to open them again. "I don't think I can." What was keeping her words from coming out any louder than a hoarse, miserable whisper?

"Oh, sugar," a technician began from outside, as if admonishing a very small child. "It's just an M. R. I... You'll be just fine, sweetie."

Shannon's mouth tasted like an ashtray and felt like akin to what she always imagined chewing sandpaper would feel like. _'At least it doesn't taste like blood anymore.'_ She needed something to drink, she needed her inhaler, and it shamed her to admit it, but more than anything, she needed someone there. Where was Boone? He should be here! _'Please,'_ she prayed to any kind of god that would lower himself to listening to her. _'Please let my brother be standing right outside this tube thing, and I'll try not to ask for anything ever again, not even if it's for, like, bigger boobs.'_ Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

"Don't move, Shannon."

The calm authority in the doctor's voice made her still. "Whatever." Indifference was the easiest thing in the world for her to fake. But in genuine feeling... was there less space between the plastic and her head now? A burst of panic fluttered within her lungs. _'Is it getting smaller?'_ Hot tears stung at her dark eyes, blurring her vision. Only one word came to mind: trapped. "Boone!" She called, claustrophobia twisting her stomach. "Is my brother there?"

That morning, her class had to dissect a sheep's heart in first period Honors' Biology. Her lab partner had a crush on her - it was not hard to get him to do all the work. For her, it had been a blur of scalpels and latex gloves that dried out her sin and disgusting flaps of gray cardiovascular muscle. Even so, the nurse's reply made Shannon wonder if the hot knife of fear that stabbed her heart was some kind of cosmic vengeance from the sheep:

"No."

The minute groan escaped her throat, stumbling past her quivering lips. Her throat was getting tighter, tighter, tighter, smaller -- like the damn M. R. I. tube -- and... "Where is he?" Why wasn't he here? What could have been more important?

If Boone was not there, then there really was no one who gave a damn about her.

Her stomach rolled. "I'm going to be sick," she whispered, struggling to breathe.

"It's okay. Your brother's going to be just fine." The statement was patronizing, mocking and Shannon barely heard.

Dark spots the color of dead roses and glowing crimson stars swam in her vision, her throat clenching tighter and tighter, and...

"Miss Rutherford, you need to relax so that we can start the test."

"You haven't even _started_?" A blade of hysteria cut into her voice. Her small, cramped space continued to grow darker and darker. She could see nothing except for the dark brown plastic. Hadn't it been orange? She brought up her trembling, unsteady fist and lashed out at the wall - it was a pure, primal need to strike something.

The sight of the crumpled plastic was the last thing she was aware of as the darkness claimed her.


	4. Chapter Three

**Home Truths:**

**Chapter Three**

* * *

"_My interest in desperation lies only in that sometimes I find myself having become desperate. Very seldom do I start out that way. I can see of course that, in the abstract, thinking and all activity is rather desperate._"

**-William de Kooning**

* * *

"You know..." began the doctor who loomed over the narrow twin bed Shannon lay in. His lab coat was longer than that of the other doctors and nurses, and she found herself idly wondering if that meant anything. Shannon glanced up at him - old and feeble he might have appeared, but his voice was hard and stern. "You are very lucky that you did not hit your head for a second time when you fainted." He paused, as if to let the implications of this seep in, and then continued. "You are luckier that you did not manage to suffocate yourself."

Shannon gave a miserable nod, her tear-stained face burning, eyes stinging and inflamed.

"You realize that you'll have to take the test again." He informed her, pressing the icy metal of his stethoscope to her back. "Breathe in."

'I don't think I can.' Shannon clicked the inhaler they had given her once more - this made the sixth time - and ignored the doctor's frown. She hoped that the medication would somehow loosen her tight throat, settle her anxious stomach. She had to pull it away after a moment, nearly gagging at the unpleasant taste. Her medicine was bearable in small quantities, but in large doses...

She coughed, gasping in between to draw in precious, precious oxygen. "I have to take it again?"

"Breathe out." Shannon inhaled, just to see the look on his face. To her disappointment, he remained stoic and passive. "Actually," he said once she had released the breath. "This time, you'll be taking a CAT scan."

Her brow furrowed, her mind trying to retrieve a biology lesson. "That's a different test. For the brain, right?"

"Yes. Breathe in."

She obeyed, lungs still struggling to regain control. "Why do you guys want me to take it, then?

"CAT scans are quieter than MRIs." He responded dryly.

He's hiding something, she realized faintly. "Aren't you done yet?" Her right hand reached to massage the goose bumps that had formed on the tanned, toned skin of her left arm, revealed by the insubstantial hospital gown. God, it's freezing in here. "My leg itches."

The doctor -- whatever his name was; Shannon hadn't been listening when he introduced himself -- made a mark on his clipboard. "That's common when you have a thigh-high cast." He never once looked up from his scribbling.

She flicked her eyes heavenward. "What did you mean?" She asked after a moment.

At last, his gaze returned to her. "When?"

"When you said I was lucky not to have hit my head again."

"Oh." He replaced the cap on his pen, instantly becoming brisk and professional once more. His back straightened and he rested his hand on her bedside table, the very image of a learned scholar at his lectern. "Hitting your head again, vulnerable as you are at the moment, would have led to a secondary concussion."

I'm hardly vulnerable. "But if I already had a concussion..." She found herself protesting.

The doctor pursed his lips. "A secondary concussion usually leads to retardation."

"Are you trying to call me stupid?" She tried to turn to face him, but the pully system that held her ruined leg in place retrained her. She settled for seizing the antiseptic-smelling blanket, wrapping it around her narrow hips. "I'll have you know that I do a hell of a lot better than most of my friends..." She cut herself off. It's none of this asshole's business. I just need...

He shook his head to himself as if in defeat, then retrieved a thick rubber strip from his coat pocket. "Arm," he ordered, already reaching for the limb.

Shannon's hand grabbed his sleeve, her slender fingertips digging into the pressure point in the man's wrist. "Where's my brother?" She demanded. Her voice was chilled liquid; her eyes defiant stars.

She felt a strange sense of pleasure - an almost heady rush of power - when she saw his throat clench and unclench as he gulped. "What do you mean?"

His denial sent cherry-hot edges of steel anger driving into her skin, trying to bring her hot blood to a boil. "I mean, where's Boone?" He was silent for a long while, and she glared up at him, trying to fight back the tears that always accompanied desperation. "You know I'm going to find out anyway."

* * *

"_By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too._"

**-William Shakespeare**

Peter Sullivan jerked away from the girl. It was not disgust, was not his usual aversion to being touched. It was something akin to fear, fear of the desperation in this young girl's furious eyes. "I'll get one of the nurses to do the blood sample," he said, trying to put some semblance of normalcy back into the coversation.

There. He considered himself to be a good doctor -- his ex-wife had screamed that he knew shit-all about people, but he knew how to maintain the professional coolness that so many doctor's these days seemed to be lacking.

He was halfway to the door when he heard a single word, no louder than a kitten's mewl.

"...Please?"

It sounded clumsy and foreign on her tongue, and he twisted to look at her, seeing not her, but parts of her.

Her slim leg - which, even at fifteen, seemed as delicate as in a child's drawing of a girl - swathed in layers of plaster, the fragile bone snapped in three places, suspended by a pulley. Her mussed blonde hair, in disarray. The small cuts and scratches on her face, cuts echoed on her arms and legs. Her wince as she breathed in too sharply, her hand moving to a bruised rib. The rawness of her clean face, of skin that had been scrubbed briskly and coldly when she had been admitted. The pathetic, adult-sized hospital gown that hung off her thin frame. The way the fluorescent lights wash her out.

Then he saw her as a whole, saw the fear in those blazing eyes, and she looked just like his daughter had, once the cancer had taken hold.

He lowered his eyes to the cheap linoleum, and, voice hardly above a whisper, he told her.


	5. Chapter 5

**The number you have dialed, (area code: 805)-571-3412, is currently unavailable. Please leave a message. **

_Hello. This is Misses Lablonde from the attendance office at Saint Roseline's. I'm calling to report that Shannon Rutherford and Boone Carlyle were not present in assembly when attendance was taken and were marked as absent in each period throughout the school day. As you know, today was the last day of school before our Christmas holidays, and the archdiocese wants us to treat this as truancy. Without an excuse note when classes resume, Shannon and Boone will be given the demerits accordingly. _

_xxx_

The first thing the young male nurse sent in to retrieve the tray noticed about the blonde girl in the hospital bed was not her cut flesh or injured leg. The girl blazed even in spite of her circumstances. She had a pair of headphones on; Alexei could hear the strains of some popular song. An old issue of _Vogue,_ rather worse for the wear, was clutched in her fingers, and another pile of back issues of the fashion magazines, along with the Discman on the bedside table.

He frowned as he picked up the untouched tray, fluorescent lighting reflecting off the burnished metal. "You haven't eaten anything."

The girl – he didn't even know her name, had not so much as bothered to look at her charts – pulled off her headphones, letting them dangle uselessly around her neck, and neatly evaded the questions. "Can you believe I got all this from that fat girl across the hall? She came to hang out with me."

Alexei frowned, disapproval wrinkling his dark brow. "That girl has problems."

"Yeah, she told me about how she, like, ODed on amphetamines and caffeine pills to lose weight. It didn't exactly work, huh?" The girl smirked, folding back the page to display a high-quality picture of a rail-thin model, one of those hollow-eyed young women who were known by just the one name. "I wish I looked like that." She said, voice both envious and wistful, jabbing the page with her slightly scarred index finger. Alexei suspected that he knew what the scars were from – when a person's finger jabbed repeatedly down her throat, it could be scarred by the mouth acids.

The nurse drew in a breath, held it to a count of ten, and released it. "One of the doctors found something interesting in your blood sample. Where is your mother?"

"Well…my old _au pair _used to say she was in heaven."

XXX

The fledgling restaurant was fashionable, appointed with all the lavish trappings of the late nineties. The maitre d' hotel escorted Sabrina to a small, linen-draped table that had been nestled in comfortable seclusion behind a wall of luxuriant potted plants. With an air of practiced formality, he pulled out her stiff-backed chair.

"Misses Carlyle." The man waiting for her greeted, eyes lighting upon seeing her. _Wrong on both counts, _Sabrina thought without bitterness, just a certain amount of exhaustion, though she kept a pleasant smile upon her features as he stood and offered his hand. Hers fit easily within.

"Rutherford, actually." She corrected, slipping tranquilly into her seat, her spine straight and shoulders not touching the back of the chair.

"I took the liberty of ordering us a bottle of wine." The man said smoothly, his light voice possessing the brisk lilt of a British accent, motioning to the extravagantly labeled bottle. He had dancing, laughing blue eyes, set off by dark hair that fell to his shoulders in gentle waves – an anachronism of a man, evoking the image of a Victorian poet. He lifted the bottle skillfully in his slender hands, looking for all the world as if he and the decadent surroundings were old acquaintances, and without asking whether she drank, filled a pair of crystal generous to the gold-ringed lip.

The crimson liquid in Sabrina's glass sloshed, so much like the red rivers of the exodus.

"Did you enjoy the gift basket?"

"Yes!" She was well-aware that she sounded sprightly and sure. "It was lovely." However, in truth, she could not recall this man's name; let alone if she had received his gift. She received plenty of them: passes to exclusive overnight spas, invitations to immoderate parties, large bouquets and overwhelming gift baskets. (Actually, as far as she knew, the gourmet cookies, fragrant teas and jars of exquisite samplings were the only food in the house since the last housekeeper left.) Her secretary often saved the less embellished offerings for herself; it was the sensible young woman who wrote the cheerful, chatty notes that Sabrina always signed her maiden name to.

"I'm so glad you liked it." The Briton's words were underscored with the hint of boyish exuberance. She suspected that there was a certain amount of genuine joie de vivre about him. In her world, a realm where so much was feigned, the honest purity of emotion was a rare commodity. "Actually, I'm just glad you agreed to meet with me. Victoria absolutely _loves _your work–"

"I'm sorry," Sabrina broke in, trying to regain the upper hand. She felt almost as if she were drowning, and… A well manicured hand lifted from her lap, pretty sterling silver bracelets chiming against one another. Her fingertips whispered over her skin as she massaged her right temple. How had she lost control of the situation? This was _her_ element. "What did you say your name was?"

Much to her relief, he tossed back his head, a few soft curls rippling, and laughed warmly. "I forgot that we'd made this appointment _months _ago! I know you're a busy woman!" That was a new sentiment, she noted wryly. The majority of the clients that she took on personally were luminary women, obsessed with their own celebrity or wealth, scrutinizing every detail. "I'm William Hall." A dimple appeared in his smooth cheek as he smiled at her. "I'm representing Victoria Adams and David Beckham."

The name David Beckham had sounded familiar when she had first heard it, but she had dismissed it then. Now, Sabrina mulled over it for a moment, attempting to place it. "Soccer player, correct?"

"He's a footballer, yes. Man U!" At her cool apathy, his youthful brightness dimmed as slowly as a burnt-out star. Manchester United was, for Sabrina, a horrid corporate monster of a team. Schoolchildren in French Guyana liked Manchester United. Women in India who fancied the footballers and envied their wives cheered for Man U. Middle-aged men who drank Guinness and boasted about their days of passed glory in sports pubs liked Manchester United. Mister Hall tried a smile. "I've heard you spent a lot of time abroad. I don't suppose you have a club, Mrs. Rutherford?"

Sabrina wanted to laugh at the image it made. Here she was, supposedly arranging one of the Spice Girls weddings. (She had not even know _that _prior to last night when Shannon, applying mascara in the foyer before she rushed out on a date, drolly informed her that she was behind the times.) Boone and Shannon were in the hospital, her husband was probably planning to spend the evening with his air-headed blonde secretary, and Sabrina was sitting here, trying not to get roped into a discussion about British football with a man who looked ridiculously similar to her younger brother, down to the same name.

"Sparks, I suppose." She answered after a moment.

It was not a lie – the Sparks had been her club when she was in England. It seemed like a lifetime ago, when she was living abroad, though she had spent more than a decade there. Her brother and she had attended a preparatory secondary school – Woodford Green Preparatory – until they had come of age. It had been the closest thing Sabrina had ever known to halcyon days – away from their father's heavy drinking and heavier hands, out of the city they had been raised to think of as their birthright. She had continued on at university in France, but Will had been summoned home – Father had insisted that he continue the family's WestPoint tradition.

And once the Gulf War had begun, Sabrina had been the only relative left to receive the brief letter, saying no more than needed: William Ignatius Carlyle had been killed in the line of duty by fratricide – murder of a sibling, friendly fire. The body would be cremated prior to internment; there were too many wounds.

"…all of your travel expenses will be paid, of course." Mister Hall was saying, voice animated and full of life.

"Pardon?" Sabrina shook her head as if to clear it.

"For your trip, naturally. You would be there for several months, but I suspect that you're accustomed to travel…"

The wine in her glass had stilled; it looked now like blood, and she imagined her child's face, pale skin broken and stained with blood.

"Mister Hall?" She rose to her feet. "There's somewhere else I need to be."

XXX

The vehicle was beyond all recognition.

"This car wasn't actually street legal – it's an old model, I understand, but the restorations didn't include an airbag in either the steering column or the passenger side."

Adam found himself rapidly losing the ability to speak, not that he could think of a single word that was worth saying, as the masculine-looking officer addressed him. She was cool, aloof, detached – it hadn't been _her _children.

"That's where they used the jaws of life."

Metal. Parted, ripped open as easily as cheap foil.

"This is likely from when they hit the guardrail."

A shower of broken glass.

"We're still trying to figure out whether the impact with the truck caused the car to flip, of course… these things take time."

Blood. So much blood. Staining the seats, a harsh contrast to the once pristine leather.

"These were found scattered on the highway. They were presumably in the backseat of the trunk."

A box on the crimson-stained passenger seat, filled with simple things.

A library copy of _Othello, _several pages earmarked.

A scuffed pink leather _pointe _shoe.

"Mister Rutherford? I'm sorry."

For the first time in years, Adam Rutherford let himself cry.


End file.
